Lifeguard - James Patterson [37]
It was a little after five, and I found a cabbie who for forty bucks took me down to Brockton. I had him let me off on Edson and I cut over behind the elementary school to Hillside, where Dave was going to meet me.
The house was the third one down the block, a weather-beaten gray Cape with a short, steep driveway. I felt a wave of relief. My brother’s black WRX was parked on the street.
I waited a few minutes by a lamppost, watching the street. No cops. No one had followed. Time to get this done . . .
I jogged around to the side of the house. As Dave had said, the storm door to the basement was open. Just like old times. We used to hang out there, watch some ball games, occasionally smoke a little weed.
I rapped on the glass. “Dave!”
No one answered.
I pushed open the door, and the musty mothball smell brought back a lot of good memories. Philly hadn’t exactly redecorated the place since I left. The same plaid, basket-weave couch and chewed-up recliner. A pool table with a couple of Miller Lite lanterns over it, a cheap barnwood bar.
“Hey, Dave!” I yelled.
I noticed a book opened on the couch. An art book. I turned it over: The Paintings of van Gogh. Unless Philly had somehow elevated his reading material since I’d been away, I figured Dave had brought it. There was a stamp on the inside flap from the Boston College library. He had said he had something to show me on Gachet.
“Davey, where the hell are you, man?”
I plopped down on the couch and flipped the book open to a page that had been marked by a yellow Post-it sticker.
There was a portrait of an old man leaning on his fist, wearing a white cap, with a melancholy look, piercing blue eyes. Those identifiable van Gogh swirls brilliant in the background.
My eyes focused on the text.
Portrait of Dr. Gachet.
I stared closer, my eyes magnetized to the small print. Portrait of Dr. Gachet. 1890.
I felt a surge of excitement. The painting was done over a hundred years ago. Anyone could be using the name. But suddenly I had hope. Gachet was real! Maybe Ellie Shurtleff would know.
“Dave!” I called, louder. I looked up the stairs to the main floor.
Then I noticed the light in the bathroom, the door slightly ajar.
“Jesus, Dave, you in there?” I went over and rapped on the door. The force of my knock edged it open.
All I remember for the next sixty seconds or so was standing there as if I’d been slammed in the midsection by a sledgehammer.
Oh, Dave . . . oh Dave.
My brother was propped up on the toilet seat in his hooded BC sweatshirt. His head was cocked slightly to the side. Blood was everywhere, leaking out of his abdomen, onto his jeans, the floor. He wasn’t moving. Dave was just staring at me with this placid expression, like, Where the hell were you, Ned?
“Oh my God, Dave, no!”
I rushed over to him, feeling for a pulse I knew wasn’t there, trying to shake Dave back to life somehow. There was a large puncture wound through the sweatshirt on the left side over his ribs. I pulled the sweatshirt up, and it was as if the left side of Dave’s abdomen fell into my hands.
I stumbled backward, my legs buckling. I punched the bathroom wall and sort of slid, helpless to the linoleum floor.
Suddenly, the sweats started to rush over my body again. I couldn’t just sit there, staring at Dave any longer. I had to get out. I staggered to my feet, leaving the bathroom. I needed some air.
That was when I felt the arm wrap around my neck. Tight, incredibly tight. A voice hissed in my ear, “You’ve got a few things that belong to us, Mr. Kelly.”
Chapter 43
I COULDN’T BREATHE. My neck and head were jerked back by a very strong man. The edge of a sharp blade dug into my rib cage.
“The art, Mr. Kelly,” the voice said again, “and unless I start hearing about the paintings in the next five seconds, that’s about all the time